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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163288">with blood and soft stitches</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe'>unicornpoe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fighter Dean Winchester, Friends With Benefits, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Writer Castiel (Supernatural), this author is a card carrying member of the john winchester is a piece of shit club, underground fighting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:54:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,833</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m a writer,” Castiel says, shrugging. He hopes Dean doesn’t ask him to go any further into it; he hates talking about himself. “Sometimes the words won’t come, so I wander around here. Better than nothing.”</p><p>Dean nods, and he swallows again, and again Castiel’s gaze is drawn to the dip of his long throat, to the shift of muscles beneath his thin pale skin. Dean is always moving: chest rising on a breath, fist clenching, jaw shifting, heartbeat pounding away at the insides of his wrists. Dean is a flurry of something. </p><p>“But lately,” Castiel says, and meets Dean’s eyes head-on, willing him not to look away. “I’ve been coming back just to see you.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>what's up deancas nation, this one's a doozy so buckle in</p><p>tags/warnings subject to change, so please check them regularly! i'll provide detailed warnings in the end notes. don't let them scare you away, though: this fic <em>does</em> have a happy ending :D</p><p>title from The Pugilist by Keaton Henson which is a disturbingly fitting song for this fic</p><p>ok go buckwild xoxo gossip eden</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The man with the bruises is back again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel is wandering this Walmart at three in the morning because his writing is going nowhere and pretending like he desperately needs to buy shampoo in the middle of the night is preferable to sitting in his apartment staring at a blinking cursor, but this man… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel watches him around an end cap full of razors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve both been here at the same time before, although Castiel’s sure that the man has never seen him. He’s standing in the center of the first aid aisle, browsing the bandages with a discerning eye; the eye that isn’t swollen shut behind a mottled bruise is impossible to tell the color of from this distance, although it looks light. His hair is light too, like a palmful of road dust, and he holds one arm close to his chest, only one sleeve of his jacket able to be pulled over his uninjured shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he walks his step is light, but he holds himself with the kind of tension that Castiel can feel from here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every night for a week Castiel has seen him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel selects his shampoo, forcing his gaze away and blinking a little at the headache the fluorescents have given him. He’s been standing here way the fuck too long. He’s got a deadline to meet by the end of the weekend and watching an off-puttingly attractive stranger in the middle of Walmart isn’t going to reach it for him—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A clatter, a muttered curse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel is across the aisle and bending to pick up the man’s dropped bandage before he can think about it. It has skittered its way beneath the lip of the shelf; he comforts himself with the thought that it would have been uncomfortable for the man to reach it with his injuries anyway, straightening with the most pleasant and least threatening expression he can muster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It must work. The man looks slightly surprised—he probably didn’t think there was anybody else here at this time of night—although it’s difficult to tell with half his face distorted with the injury. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, man,” he says. His voice is quieter than Castiel would’ve thought. Deeper, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This close he can see that the man’s eyes are green. Improbably so, like sage or the surface of a pond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No problem.” Castiel passes the bandages over. The man’s knuckles are split, bruised; it must hurt to bend them. The bruise on his jaw that had been lividly purple on Monday has dulled out to an unripe yellow, but still isn’t healed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Castiel lifts his gaze back to the man’s, the skin beneath his bruises is pink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel smiles. Slow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight,” Castiel murmurs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” says the man. “Uh. Night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walks away, footfalls soft. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s in the liquor aisle the next night, clutching a six pack in one hand and a bottle Castiel can’t read the label of in the other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel doesn’t need anything down this aisle—doesn’t actually need anything in this store, if he’s being honest; he went home last night and the words flowed out of him like they haven’t in weeks, so he’s no longer behind deadline—but he stops anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looks up. He doesn’t smile when he sees Castiel, but his broad shoulders turn a little toward him, unconscious and seeking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rough night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The edge of the man’s mouth lifts. “You got no idea,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel really, really doesn’t. The swelling over the man’s eye has gone down, leaving him with a bruise that makes Castiel’s teeth ache just to look at it, and he still holds his left shoulder awkwardly, as if it’s out of place; Castiel doesn’t see new injuries, although that certainly doesn’t mean there aren’t any there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights above them are sterile, harsh. Beneath them, it’s easy to see how tired the man is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is lovely anyway. Castiel watches his grip change on the six pack, strong hands shifting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope it gets better,” Castiel says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man looks like he wants to say more, to press his palm against the surface of this conversation, to lean in. There’s something almost boyish to the way he tucks the pillow of his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment even though there’s a weight to his eyes that makes him appear ancient. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” he says at last, low and simple and a little too rough to be casual. Castiel’s words have touched him, simple though they may be. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Are you alright? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Castiel wants to ask, even though it’s clear that he isn’t, maybe has not been for a while. He wants to help him. It’s presumptuous and too nosy of him, it’s bald in the sort of way his siblings made fun of him for all throughout childhood—but the urge is still there, lodged behind his breastbone like the head of an arrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smothers it. The man in front of him is exhausted and injured, but he’s an adult. An adult Castiel doesn’t even know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel walks away this time, his hands as empty as when he’d arrived. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>*</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man won’t look at Castiel tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He isn’t alone. There is another man with him, and Castiel doesn’t like the harshness of his mouth, doesn’t like the way his bruised man keeps his eyes down and his shoulders up around the older one, like a subconscious thing. Like he’s protecting his tender middle bits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The store is mostly silent around them. Nothing but the buzz of the lights, the hiss of the freezers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t hafta do this shit for you,” the older one says. His voice is too loud in this strange, liminal bubble of the store, and his words slur together like someone has pushed them all to one side. He’s drunk. He’s angry. “Don’t hafta let you live in my house or feed you or keep clothes on your fuckin’ back. You forget who you are, Dean. You forget who keeps you alive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dean. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The name suits him. The new bruise standing out like a warning on his cheekbone does not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s throat moves as he swallows. He doesn’t look at the man who’s leering into his space, movements sloppy and eyes dark as flint; he grabs one bottle of Neosporin off the shelf, and then another, and Castiel watches with his hands held tight at his sides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was the first time I’ve lost in months,” Dean says softly. It isn’t a gentle kind of soft. He ekes the words out from behind a cage of clenched teeth, and his hand shakes a little until he lowers it. “I ain’t ever done anything but brought in money for you, dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel’s heartbeat tastes sour on the back of his tongue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s father watches his son for a tight handful of seconds, his features harder than stone, and Castiel thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>God, he’s going to hit him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Castiel moves out from behind this shelf— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man turns on his heel and strides out of the store. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, Dean does nothing but stand there. He looks small, Castiel thinks; small in the way of things that have to try too hard to be wanted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights buzz, the freezers hiss. Somewhere distant, a checkout counter beeps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel closes the distance between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s sluggish to look up, eyes blinking slow, and Castiel wonders for a moment if he’s drunk, too, before he realizes that it’s just exhaustion dragging at his bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t seem surprised to see Castiel. He’s leaning to one side like his shoulder’s acting up, he says, “What’s your deal, anyway?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe Castiel should be put off by the ragged edges of that tone. But Castiel has never been what he’s supposed to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a writer,” Castiel says, shrugging. He hopes Dean doesn’t ask him to go any further into it; he hates talking about himself. “Sometimes the words won’t come, so I wander around here. Better than nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean nods, and he swallows again, and again Castiel’s gaze is drawn to the dip of his long throat, to the shift of muscles beneath his thin pale skin. Dean is always moving: chest rising on a breath, fist clenching, jaw shifting, heartbeat pounding away at the insides of his wrists. Dean is a flurry of something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But lately,” Castiel says, and meets Dean’s eyes head-on, willing him not to look away. “I’ve been coming back just to see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel has been told that he doesn’t flirt so much as lay his interest bare like revealing a hand of cards, unguarded and entire. Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He flushes even darker than two nights ago, skin dusky pink over the high ridge of his cheekbones and beneath the freckles on the bridge of his nose, and turns the objects in his hands over, and over, and over again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I,” he says, unsteady. His lip is split tonight. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I ain’t ever done anything but brought in money for you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had said. His tongue darts out, moist and pink, and swipes at the blood dried flaky at the edge of his mouth. “I don’t…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does that make you uncomfortable?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s eyes drift from Castiel’s, to his mouth, back up again. He murmurs, “No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air between them tightens. Castiel wants to curve his palm over the dip of Dean’s waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My name is Castiel,” he says quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean laughs on a huff of air, his smile small but charming. His cheeks would be warm beneath Castiel’s mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Dean,” he says. He parts his lips, hesitates, licks them again; he shuffles half a step closer to Castiel, and it feels like a victory. “I come here at night so nobody’ll stare, but I guess that didn’t work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really is unspeakably beautiful. Cas can feel heat bouncing off of him from just a few paces away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dean,” Castiel says, even though he already knew. He likes the shape of it in his mouth. “Should I stop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Dean says once more, too quickly. Castiel smiles. “No, I—god. No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean shifts on the balls of his feet, slightly toward Castiel and then slightly away. “Look,” he says, tone full of too much air. “Look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel hasn’t looked away this whole time, and he isn’t about to start now. He tips his head, hopes his expression is encouraging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean’s fingers move restlessly. “I gotta—uh, I can’t stay any longer tonight. But I’d… I think I’d really like to see you outside of this goddamn Walmart.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel knows he’s smiling, wide and pleased, and that smile only grows. “I’d like that too, Dean,” he says. He watches as Dean fishes his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it, and then he hands it across. Their fingers don’t brush. “Very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean scratches the back of his neck. His cheeks are the color of a sunset, splotchy with it by now, and Castiel can’t possibly imagine that he doesn’t get hit on often, but… well. Maybe not by men. Or maybe simply not by someone as intense as Castiel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He enters his number carefully, double, triple checking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” he says when he’s done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dean laughs again, awkward and not-so-secretly pleased. “I’ll, um…” he points at the phone. Castiel nods. Dean shuffles backward a couple steps. “Right. Night, I guess, Castiel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Castiel really, really hopes he texts him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Dean,” Castiel says. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>CW/TWs: detailed description of injuries (bruises, very minor blood); one mention of physical abuse; alcohol/drinking/intoxication mentions throughout </p><p>i am on <a href="https://twitter.com/cowboy_like_me_">twitter</a> where i cry a lot and also <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/danger-and-diatribes">tumblr</a> which i don't know how to use and i'd love to talk to you &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>Dean hisses through his teeth when he feels Castiel bite lightly at the hinge of his jaw, palm skating up his hip and sneaking beneath his shirt to cup the curve of Dean’s rib cage. The night air crawls in there with them.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The bar is dim around Dean, and unfamiliar. The band playing on the stage in the corner is way too fucking loud, and he’s the only one sitting alone, and he got here way too early and he shouldn’t have come anyway, shouldn’t be doing something as risky as this, even though he’s all the way across town from The Bunker and nobody knows him here but </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span>— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t jolt, but his heart kicks beneath his skin. Dean tucks his features into his best smile and turns around, one foot hooked around the leg of his stool. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God, Castiel looks good. His hair’s just as messy as it has been every time Dean’s seen him at three am, the bags beneath his eyes are just as present—but his smile is a wide-slow slide, and in the low light of the bar his eyes are a dark, diaphanous blue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” Dean says. He feels Castiel’s gaze like a presence on the surface of him, more sure than the stares he’s been getting all evening, and infinitely more welcome. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean is holding his beer too tightly, tight enough that his knuckles smart. It is lukewarm and slick beneath his palms. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, roughshod and low, and slips onto the stool beside Dean. He leans against the bartop with his spine in an easy curve, forearms exposed where he’s rolled his green henley up to rest at the dip of his elbows. “I’m glad to see you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s charming, the way he speaks. Careful and lovely and a little strange. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s own words feel too jagged for his mouth. Clumsy on his tongue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This guy’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>writer. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dean’s barely got a GED and he beats people up for a living. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You too,” Dean says, and stares at the place where the label on his beer is starting to peel off because he’s pretty sure he’ll burn out of his skin if he looks at Castiel directly. “I’m really… I’m glad to see you too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aw, hell. Look at him, smooth fuckin’ operator over here. Everything’s coming up Winchester. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel orders for himself while Dean’s liquifying off his seat and running down into the crack where the bar meets the sticky floor—Dean misses what he asks for, blood too loud in his ears, but it looks like scotch and when Castiel drinks, his lips are soft and pink around the rim of the glass—and Dean watches his smile grow. He can’t tell if he’s being laughed at or not. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He ducks his chin, the back of his neck hot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dean,” says Castiel again, low. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Dean says, but the rejoinder sounds weak to his own ears, and anyway he doesn’t actually wanna antagonize Castiel—he really, really doesn’t want that. He wants to just… Dean just wishes Castiel himself would do the talking, the leading, the initiating. Hell, it took enough courage on Dean’s end just to text the guy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he cuts his eyes to the side again Castiel is still watching him, level and fervent in a way that kick-starts something deep in Dean’s belly, powerful as his Impala’s engine and three times as hot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Castiel doesn’t say anything. He sets his hand on Dean’s thigh instead, gentle and firm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not high enough to suggest anything, but Dean shivers to his core anyway. The heat of Castiel’s palm bleeds through the denim, bleeds right down into Dean’s skin and muscle and bone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this alright?” Castiel murmurs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It takes Dean too many tries to get his voice working again. “Yeah,” he says finally, hoarse. “Yeah.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’d taken Dean a solid week to work up enough nerve to text after Castiel had given him his number. A solid fucking week—enough time for his shoulder to heal itself back into passable fighting condition, enough time for him to lick his wounds after losing to one of Crowley’s goons for the first time in ten goddamn years, enough time for John to be able to meet his eyes in the kitchen or across the living room without his face crumpling in with shame. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, drunk on cheap whiskey and high on the memory of the way he’d felt when Castiel said his name, he’d bitten the bullet and sent the text. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They haven’t talked to each other from that night until now. Dean… Dean doesn’t know for sure what this is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean knows what he hopes this is.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have to confess,” Castiel says, leaning in a little closer so his voice carries over the noise of the band, “that I’m not very good at small talk.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something about it nudges a noise out of Dean, closer to a sigh of a relief than a laugh, and the knot between his shoulder blades unravels just a bit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s ok, man,” Dean says quietly, and he breathes in, brave, brave. “I didn’t wanna see you again to chat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He watches Castiel take this in. Watches his gaze move slow across Dean’s face like a searchlight. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous,” murmurs Castiel. It doesn’t sound like he thinks he is. “But I’d very much like to take you home.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Dean breathes, unsteady, and curves his fingers over the hand Castiel has set on his leg. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel kisses him once they’re outside, his hands wound up in the edges of Dean’s coat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mouth is hot—blisteringly so, Jesus, fuck, Dean shivers again—and the air puffs white between them when they pull back long enough to breathe. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean can hear himself. Hear the sounds he’s making. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel licks behind his teeth and Dean feels the soft places behind his knees give way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re lovely,” Castiel says. They’re in the alley behind the bar, standing in a patch of dirty water with Dean’s back up against the frigid brick of the building and Dean’s blood is like lava. “I’ve thought so from the beginning.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel isn’t like anybody else Dean’s picked up—been picked up by?—and it isn’t just because he’s the only dude Dean’s been brave enough to go for in… god, years. Dean is used to the low flush of heat that spreads across his skin when somebody looks at him a certain way, touches him in a certain place, says the right handful of words— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean isn’t used to this: Castiel mouthing at the place where Dean’s pulse beats its fists, the scrape of his stubble, the width of his palm at Dean’s waist and the bald honesty of his words against Dean’s neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>From the beginning, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Castiel says. Dean thinks of how it felt that first time, nearly two weeks ago now, walking into the store after three fights in a row with his jaw aching like a motherfucker and his knuckles swollen so tight that they almost couldn’t bend, when he’d caught Castiel looking at him with his bruise-blue eyes from the other end of the aisle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not looking at him like Dean was gonna stir up trouble, or stuff something down his pants and walk out. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No. He looked at Dean like he was glad to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean hisses through his teeth when he feels Castiel bite lightly at the hinge of his jaw, palm skating up his hip and sneaking beneath his shirt to cup the curve of Dean’s rib cage. The night air crawls in there with them. Dean shivers again and the reaction is a tangle, a feedback loop, born of Castiel’s mouth and his hands and the air like ice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You gotta,” Dean mumbles, a hand on Castiel’s chest, and he pulls back immediately: Dean blinks through the haze that’s made his eyelids heavy and slow. Licks his lips, a little swollen already. Been a long fuckin’ while since he’s been kissed like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes?” Castiel asks him. His hand is still on Dean’s bare skin, his fingers in the notches between slender bone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gotta stop for now, dude, I’m gonna lose it before we even get to your place,” Dean admits, hoping his face isn’t as red as it feels. That’s probably a futile wish. Maybe it’s dark enough here in their murky corner for him to hide. “You’re fucking good at that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t know this man, but still he thinks it’s pretty clear what it means when he makes that expression—that heated, almost drowsy expression, the hunger in the slip of his mouth. “You, Dean,” Castiel says with a voice like smoke. “You aren’t half bad yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His breath shivers at that, tight in his lungs. He stares at his own hand flat on Castiel’s chest. “Thank you,” he says dumbly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once again, he can’t tell if Castiel’s laughing at him. He cares less than he thought he would.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel kisses the edge of Dean’s mouth. He’s so weird. Dean sways into him like a magnet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He spends the drive to Castiel’s place with his spine tight like a drawstring. Castiel doesn’t touch him but the air between their bodies is heavy. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Dean fits himself up behind Castiel as he unlocks his front door, hands on his hips, and kisses the soft-warm place behind his ear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Castiel murmurs, and fumbles with his key, and there’s an unsteadiness in his tone that Dean hasn’t heard yet, a sign that all this is effecting something in him, too, and it—and it helps. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something about seeing him tilted a little off his axis like Dean is, something about the way his head falls back and shows off the line of his neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They get inside and they reach Castiel’s bedroom and Dean watches the muscles in Castiel’s arms shift as he shrugs out of his coat and takes off his shoes, as he leans over and flicks on the lamp in the corner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean does the same. It gives him a moment to duck his head. To realign. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he looks up Castiel is simply watching him again. Those starving fucking eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come here,” Castiel says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t consider refusing. Dean moves through the room, thick with dusk, and then Castiel is kissing him as surely as he seems to do everything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel’s lips are plush on Dean’s, his jaw stubbled and warm in the cup of Dean’s palm. Dean slides a hand into Castiel’s hair as Castiel ducks down and bites at the line of Dean’s neck, soft nipping things that he soothes over with the flat of his tongue, that shoot </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>from Dean’s gut to the soles of his feet like a lightning strike. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A pause for breath. Castiel’s mouth is livid at the hollow of Dean’s throat, and Dean paws at the buttons on his shirt with desire-clumsy hands, wanting nothing more than for the fabric simply to disappear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe Castiel can tell. He catches Dean’s wrist in one hand and he breathes out a dazed sort of laugh into Dean’s collar bone, kissing there once, twice, three times before he pulls back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eager?” he asks. He looses Dean’s wrist and makes quick work of his buttons; his hands are steady, but Dean sees the stutter of breath in his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean swallows, tight. Watches Castiel watch him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pulls his own shirt over his head without ceremony, and then he takes a breath, and then he steps out of his socks and his underwear and jeans. That should be answer enough. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, look at you,” Castiel murmurs, shirt falling from his shoulders before he steps forward and palms Dean’s hip gently. He’s gorgeous, like Dean knew he would be, more tan and of a stockier musculature than Dean’s own lean boxer’s build, and Dean wants to—he wants to get his mouth on all that skin, wants to taste him—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel sinks to his knees before Dean can kiss him again He noses at the crease of Dean’s hip and thigh, breath humid; his hands bracket Dean’s hips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shaky, Dean breathes in. His hands are back in Castiel’s hair without himself even noticing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“May I?” Castiel asks, looking up at Dean from beneath the curtain of his eyelashes. There are two spots of color high on the point of his cheekbones, and his lips are wet and dark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Please, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dean thinks. “‘Course,” he says aloud, a little too rough, and barely holds back a moan as Castiel guides Dean forward and wraps that mouth around the tip of Dean’s cock, slow as sin. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s—god, he’s so good. He does something with his tongue that has Dean’s head tipping back to rest its weight on his neck, that has Dean’s eyes slamming closed, and he holds Dean’s hips still with his big fucking hands as he takes Dean all the way back into his throat. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Castiel,” Dean says, punched-out; Castiel’s hair is soft between his fingers. Castiel’s thumbs press into that place right beneath Dean’s hip bones. Dean is—Dean is— “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Castiel.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel hums around him, warm and low, sweet as honey. Dean has bitten his lip so hard that he tastes blood in an effort to keep these noises locked inside of him, but when he forces his eyes open and sees Castiel with a hand around his own cock, moving up and down in time with the bob of his head, he can’t help the moan that slips out of him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait,” Dean gasps, unsteady, and ends up with a hand on Castiel’s cheek as he pulls back to look up at Dean. His eyes are mostly pupil, his mouth is red, red. “I wanna—wanna taste you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“God,” Castiel says, shaky. His voice is raspy with heat. It splits Dean open. “Dean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean can’t get a full breath in. “That a yes?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s so goddamn sexy when he smiles like that. “Of course,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean tugs him upward and lets Castiel kiss him, a little sloppy, a little uncoordinated, as he gets Castiel’s jeans unbuttoned and pushes him gently backwards until his thighs hit the edge of the mattress and he sits, hands sliding down from Dean’s jaw to his shoulders to his wrists. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t pull away from the band of Castiel’s hold, even though his grip is loose enough that Dean easily could. He wonders if Castiel can feel Dean’s pulse, the way it thunders through the collection of veins right beneath Castiel’s fingertips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s bad knee aches as he kneels between Castiel’s thighs, and his shoulder does too—aftershocks of injuries that never really go away when you reaggravate them every couple of nights—but he pays them no attention. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel’s cock is thick and pink and already wet at the tip. Gorgeous, as all of Castiel is. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The inside of his thigh is velvet-soft beneath Dean’s mouth. Dean kisses him there, again and again, and listens to Castiel’s reedy inhale. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s it,” Castiel tells him softly. He traces tiny circles at the underside of Dean’s wrists. Dean shakes at his core, nestles closer to the sweet-clean smell of Castiel’s skin. “You’re so beautiful,” Castiel says, and when Dean breathes in his chest glows like he’s swallowed the sun. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s harder than he can remember being in a long time, aching with it. It doesn’t matter. He licks up Castiel’s pre-come, narrowly avoids moaning in answer when he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s been a while since Dean has done this for someone, but based on the way Castiel keeps saying his name over and over again—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean, Dean, </span>
  </em>
  <span>like it means something more than just this man here on the floor—and the half-restrained thrust of his hips, Dean figures he’s doing ok. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He knows Castiel’s close when that litany of his name changes to a warning. When he squeezes Dean’s wrists a little tighter than before. When he says, soft, “Oh, I’m going to—” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean doesn’t pull back. He swallows as Castiel comes in his mouth, bitter and warm on his tongue, and laps at the head of his cock until Castiel tugs him back up and into his lap so he can kiss him again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’s breathing hard into it, his skin sweat-slick and hot under Dean’s hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I did this, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dean thinks. And then Castiel wraps his hand around Dean, slides it up and down, and Dean doesn’t think anything else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s over quick. Dean ruts into Castiel’s hand, arms draped over his shoulders, and Castiel kisses the gasp out of his mouth as he comes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean just breathes when they’re done. He tingles where Castiel draws long sweeping arcs up his spine, where he kisses lazily along the corner of Dean’s mouth.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Castiel says at last. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean laughs, halfway awkward and halfway charmed. “You don’t have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>thank me,</span>
  </em>
  <span> man,” he says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear the smile in Castiel’s voice where his face is dipped down. “Well,” he says. He’s touching the knobs of Dean’s spine with gentle fingertips. “Regardless.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A little bit of quiet. They shift to the mattress eventually, and Dean holds back a sound at the way Castiel places an open-mouth kiss on the cooling skin of Dean’s chest before he rolls away to grab a couple tissues off his nightstand and cleans the come drying sticky on Dean’s stomach, on his own hand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve got to go,” Dean says. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Castiel doesn’t look surprised, which—why would he? Still, he kisses Dean anyway, long and slow before he leaves the bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean gets dressed very aware that Castiel’s watching him. When he turns around, Castiel smiles at him in his small quiet way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dean’s heart is still racing too fast. “Castiel,” he says. “Thank you, too."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>that sex scene was too tender for two people who've only just met, but *shrugs* what can i say, they're tender bitches</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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